  The anniversary passed off happily; Lexie was soon herself again; and, a fortnight later, I saw her in her old place at church. We knew that she would insist on taking her class in the afternoon; so, to save her the long walk home, we took her to the manse to dinner. 'Several of the teachers have been telling me of the address that you gave on the evening of 'I can do better than that,' I replied. 'The address was printed in yesterday's Taieri Advocate. I have several copies to spare if you care to have one.' On arrival at the manse she insisted on going round the garden and admiring the flowers before composing herself on the sofa in the dining-room. I gave her the paper I had promised her, and hurried away to prepare for dinner. When I returned a few minutes later the paper was lying on the floor beside her, and she was crying as if her heart would break. By a supreme effort she regained her self-possession, promised to explain in the afternoon, and, in obedience to the summons, took her place at table. During dinner I mentally reviewed the address which had so strangely reopened the fountains of her grief. It was the address which, under the title 'The Little Palace Beautiful,' appears in The Golden Milestone. It begins: 'There are only four children in the wide, wide world, and each of us is the parent of at least one of them.' The first of the four is The Little Child that Never Was. 'He is,' the address says, 'an exquisitely beautiful child. He is the child of all lonely men and lonely women, the child of their dreams and their fancies, the child that will never be born. He is the son Every wild she-bird has nest and mate in the warm April weather, But a captive woman, made for love, no mate, no nest, has she. In the spring of young desire, young men and maids are wed together, And the happy mothers flaunt their bliss for all the world to see; Nature's sacramental feast for them—an empty board for me. Time, that heals so many sorrows, keeps mine ever freshly aching, Though my face is growing furrowed and my brown hair turning white. Still I mourn my irremediable loss, asleep or waking; Still I hear my son's voice calling 'Mother' in the dead of night, And am haunted by my girl's eyes that will never see the light. As the address came back to me, I began to understand. I remembered what the gossips said about the mystery in Lexie's life. What was it, I wondered, that she meant to tell me after dinner? |
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